Beaglemania (21 page)

He described it all with some modesty. I liked that.

When he turned the tables and asked how I’d come to run HotRescues, I told him briefly, without much description. “I always loved animals, even as a kid. Becoming a vet tech was perfect, at least for a while. But when I heard that Dante DeFrancisco was about to start his own animal shelter, I applied to become its administrator. Dante and I got along fine, and he hired me.”

End of story? No, but it was all I told. He didn’t need to know the really personal stuff, about how I’d grieved when my dear husband, Kerry, died. How I’d tried so hard to be a perfect single mother. How I’d thought it was in my own, and my kids’, best interests for me to marry again.

How I’d hated myself for making such a terrible choice about who.

And how my divorce had been final just about the time Dante was looking for the HotRescues administrator, and I’d wanted the job enough to practically beg—but I hadn’t had to. I made it clear to Dante how much I loved animals. How well I could run a business. How much I could contribute to the place. And how skilled I was at developing a workable business plan.

I’d finished eating. So had Matt. The server came over and asked if we wanted anything else.

Actually, I did. More time with Matt Kingston.

Which meant it was definitely time to leave.

 

 

I’d driven myself to the restaurant. I had told Matt I needed to stop to pick up coffee and soft drinks for the HotRescues people kitchen, and there was no need for him to waste time shopping with me.

Even so, when he walked me to my car, he asked if he could follow me. Make sure everything was okay at HotRescues when I got back.

His concern made me feel a bit warm and fuzzy inside, but I assured him that the security company was much more alert these days.

The fuzziness apparently mushed my brain, since I didn’t back off when he leaned toward me.

He clearly wanted to kiss me. My instinct was to turn and open the car door and leap inside.

My libido won out over my instinct.

The kiss was a good one, as spicy as the food we’d just eaten. But I knew I shouldn’t read anything into it. We’d had an enjoyable meal together. This was the extent of dessert.

“Thanks for dinner,” I told him, trying to swallow my breathlessness.

“You’re welcome. You know, I’d feel a lot better if I accompanied you back to HotRescues.”

I’d thought we had resolved that. “Very gentlemanly of you, but unnecessary. Thanks again.” And then, not wisely at all, I planted one more brief kiss on his mouth and hurried into my car.

 

 

I didn’t want to overthink that dinner with Matt, or either of those kisses. But I hadn’t been lying to him. I stopped to pick up supplies at the local supermarket on my way home. Choosing the same old coffee and sodas didn’t fill my brain with a plethora of important decisions, so I found myself rehashing all the things I’d directed myself not to angst over.

I gained no further insights—surprise.

A while later, I finally pulled into the HotRescues parking lot. I yanked the recyclable grocery bags and my purse from the floor and got out of my car. I glanced around. No sign of the security patrol. But even if they were doing their job right, that didn’t mean they’d be here at every moment.

I walked up to the entry gate and performed the magic that got me inside without tripping the security system. Inside the welcoming room, I stopped before going to the kitchen. A few dogs were barking outside, in the shelter area. Just a sociable conversation, not the loud warning to each other and any nearby humans of an intruder stalking the area. Or maybe someone had heard me come in and was telling the others, without making a huge fuss about it.

I should have felt pleased. There was nothing unusual about that kind of exchange.

Instead, a feeling of disquiet tingled over every inch of my skin. Why? I had no idea. Maybe it was just a continued reaction to my having found Efram’s body a few nights back. Or leftover uneasiness from the conversations I’d had that day with people I considered to be real, live suspects in his murder.

As I’ve said before, I’m not into woo-woo kinds of experiences. If I felt anxious, there was a reason for it, even if I couldn’t explain it to myself. The dogs’ voices, some sound only my subconscious had heard, who knew? But I wasn’t about to ignore it.

I dropped the grocery bags on the table and headed for the shelter area.

It was past dusk, so the low security lights were the only illumination. Hearing me, the dogs started to bark louder. “Hi, guys,” I said, doubting that my voice was audible to them over their own cacophony. “What’s happened here since I’ve been gone? No one else on two legs has been around, right?”

They didn’t quiet down, nor did they answer in a manner I could interpret.

But as I began to walk down the path, I realized immediately that something was very wrong.

Even if a staff member had returned, no one would have adopted out a dog in the amount of time it had taken me to have dinner. No one would have adopted out a dog at all without getting my approval.

So why was Honey missing from the very first enclosure?

My heart slammed on the brakes before restarting and accelerating beyond its usual cadence. Where was she?

“Honey?” I yelled, barely hearing myself among the clamor from the dogs who hadn’t disappeared.

I considered calling 911. But what would I say? I looked around, seeing no evidence of any intrusion, dognapping, or other illegal activity.

Only a missing pup.

I dashed down the path, looking for her. How had she gotten out? Had I done it? I’d snuggled Honey in my arms earlier that day. Later, Matt and I had come by and said hello. Had the gate been unlocked then? Had we somehow knocked it loose? Had someone else left it open? No matter how it had happened, I should have noticed. By not doing so, I might have carelessly endangered Honey’s life, potentially as much as if I hadn’t swooped her out of one of the high-kill shelters at the last minute. She’d apparently slipped out of her kennel, and could even have gotten away from HotRescues altogether.

I was always so careful, obsessively so—or that’s what I’d always thought. But now, I seemed to be losing it. Stress was no excuse.

But no sense browbeating myself now. I could do it later just as well. At this moment, I would devote all my thoughts, all my actions, to finding her.

But was I observant enough to do it alone?

Hey, someone should have been observing. I pulled my BlackBerry from my pocket, my hand quivering. I called the security company. “A dog disappeared?” The dispatcher sounded incredulous. “Just a moment.”

“Ms. Vancouver!” This was a different male voice. “I’ve been monitoring your facility from the cameras. I didn’t see anything . . . Oh, yes. Is that you on the path, there?”

“That’s right. Look, I have to find the missing dog. Call me if you see anything helpful in the pictures.” I hung up.

I considered phoning Nina for help. She was volunteering at a shelter tonight. Should I interrupt her?

Better yet, Matt. He might not be too far away. It had been less than an hour since we were together at the restaurant.

Or . . . Heck, I was the head administrator, and I was right here. I had to shrug off all the emotions that were paralyzing me, including the self-blame pouring over me like boiling wax.

I would look for Honey myself.

“Honey, come,” I wanted to shout to her. I was used to giving commands around here that were obeyed.

As if she’d listen to me now.

“Okay, guys,” I said to the other dogs, keeping my concern leashed inside. Most were finally quieting down. “Did you see where Honey went? Give me a clue.”

Some had seen Efram die here, sliced by a knife, and none had disclosed who did it. They were just as unlikely to rat on their buddy, Honey, who had escaped her cage as most of them probably longed to do.

Rounding corners, I continued to walk the paths outside the enclosures, staring into each in case Honey had somehow burrowed her way into someone else’s domain. A couple of the dogs stuck their noses through the chain-link fence enclosing them as if in support of what I was doing.

I checked the gates and other exits from the shelter area. They all seemed secure. Honey couldn’t have opened them—not herself.

But if I hadn’t simply been careless, some human could still have entered the way Efram had the other night—he and his killer. The security system had been set then, too, and the security company had supposedly been on duty, although maybe not as diligently as now. The cause was irrelevant at this moment. I’d figure it out later, when Honey was safe.

Shouldn’t they have noticed Honey’s escape on pictures from the nearest camera? It would have been the same one that Efram had covered, but when I checked I saw nothing obstructing it now. I’d been farther down the path before, though, when I’d talked to the guy at EverySecurity, so he’d seen me on a different camera.

I walked around the entire maze of dog enclosures, still calling Honey’s name. As I proceeded, the dogs I passed urged me on with their loud voices, but I still didn’t find the missing pup.

I searched through the center building, both upstairs and down. If she was there, she did a superb job of evading me.

I’d seen no sign of her in the administration building, although I hadn’t exactly looked for her there. But instead of retracing my steps, I decided to go somewhere I hadn’t been that night: the storage building at the rear of the property. If I were a dog who’d escaped my cage, I might sniff the air, determine where my food was kept, and hurry there.

I unlatched the door and pushed it open—one indication that Honey couldn’t be there. I doubted she could climb in a window, and they were kept closed anyway. But Honey wasn’t a large dog. Perhaps she’d found some other means of entry that a human wouldn’t think of.

I flipped on the ground-floor lights and peered into the laundry room. “Honey?” I called, not expecting to hear anything . . . but a muffled bark responded.

“Honey!” I shouted. “Where are you?”

Another bark. It sounded far away, but I was sure it originated somewhere in this narrow, two-story structure. I crossed the entire first floor, passing ladders, pooper scoopers, and other gear, including equipment sometimes used to modify the sizes of the enclosures. Not to mention the large metal toolbox that the cops had examined and left here. The one filled with the knives we use to slice open food bags—like the one used to slice open Efram.

No Honey.

Beyond the hardware area was where we stored the largest bags of food. I didn’t find Honey there, either, but she started barking more forcefully. From upstairs.

I climbed the stairway as fast as if I used it for exercise, hurtling my way to the second floor.

“Honey, where are you?” I yelled again, flipping on the lights here, too. I was gratified to hear more woofing from the end of the storeroom farthest from the stairway. “Keep talking,” I shouted. She did.

There she was, at last, way down at the end of the room. But how had she gotten trapped there, among piles of various sizes of dog and cat food bags? It almost looked as if someone had built her a prison cell. The stacks behind her were as tall as me. Those nearer the aisle, although piled lower, were unscalable by a dog her size.

“There you are, sweetheart,” I crooned, moving some of the bags away from the front.

Only then did I notice the leash attached to her collar. The tether disappeared into the food stack against the wall.

My concern began shifting to ire. Someone had brought her here, trapped her. Maybe endangered her life, if all those bags became unsteady as she pulled on the leash.

I finally got a row of bags in front out of the way and was about to unhook the leash from her collar. She started to yank her way toward me, though. “Sit!” I commanded, unsure whether she knew even rudimentary commands. Even if she did, she was too excited.

As she pulled toward me even more, I heard the rustling above me—just as the pile of food toward the back began falling. Followed by another. An avalanche.

Only then did I notice that one of the largest bags from downstairs was right on top—and it catapulted downward, toward my head.

That’s when I saw the knife.